You wish
by RomuleaAprile
Summary: If wishes were horses, they wouldn't take Sarah too far. Just because she never learned how to ride. J/S. Rating may change.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything connected with the "Labyrinth", and I'm doing it all for pure fun. :) No profit hoped for or aimed at. **

**Author's note: **_I gave my heart to the movie when I was less than 10 (do not remember, when exactly). It's not my first fic, but I never felt up to writing a Labyrinthian thing – it just seemed too demanding a challenge. Now I finally mustered up enough courage for it. Forgive me for any mistakes or typos. I sincerely hope there are none, but who knows what I could miss._ _And thanks for reading it, if you do. Feedback would be much appreciated. (cookies? chocolate? a hex on your enemies, anyone?) Have fun! _

**You wish**

**Chapter 1.**

_**Call me late. **_

_Throw down your gun _

_you might shoot yourself, _

_or is that what you are tryin' to do, _

_put up a fight you believe to be right _

_and someday the sun will shine through._

_You have always got something to hide _

_something you just can't tell _

_and the only time that you are satisfied _

_is with your feet in the wishing well._

"_**Wishing well"**_

_**Free**_

"I wish to speak to the Goblin King. Right _now._"

For a couple of eternities the house war perfectly still and even more quiet. Then...remained as still and quiet as ever. Nothing happened. No storm broke out to rage unleashed and inexorable outside. No blinds flapped, no windows shattered, no shadows sprouted on the prosy beige carpet. Not a single lightbulb in the room – in the whole blasted street - condescended to giving the slightest impression of growing dimmer.

Sarah pressed her lips hard to lock the way to the curse that was hanging on the tip of her tongue. What did he think she was, a bloody pet-parrot? Five summons in a row and not a sound in return!

She had prepared herself for a melodramatic escapade of an entrance, thin-lipped sneers, jeering, pointedly sardonical advances, intrusion into her personal space...She could have borne threats – even a blatant rebuff, but this complete disregard was...miffing.

The first call was an awkward experience. She stumbled through the request, pushing out word by word with inhuman difficulty, and, being honest, the lack of response was a relief rather than disappointment. The second was rolling along somewhat better until her voice betrayed her and broke at "now", which sounded like someone had pushed a mouse down her throat. The third and the forth went swimmingly, the only problem being that they got as much reaction as those uttered before them. Specifically – zero.

"Jareth?" tried she without much hope.

Silence.

Oh, what the hell.

"Fine," yelled she, "Go on, be one major royal ass!"

Not much of a summoning spell, but the efforts she'd put into those more courteous rounds of invocation gave her the right to blow off some steam.

Needless to say, it worked no better than anything she had already pronounced here.

Calm down, she said to herself. You're a grown-up person in an evening dress. Grown-up persons in evening dresses do not major-royal-as-...cough...back-side their regal opponents. And do not graze their freshly manicured nails all the way down to the middle phalanges.

With a snort of exasperation Sarah let herself collapse onto the impossible construction of cushions, erected by Karen in a fit of house-pride and occupying the fair part of the couch ever since.

"Fine," repeated she almost peacefully, "Guess that's the case of no gain, no pain."

A wise observation, considering the trouble she'd been – in the proper sense of the word – inviting to enjoy her company.

And to crown it all, she couldn't exactly tell why it had never occurred to her that the infamous Goblin King could fail to come to her call. It simply went without saying that he would, no, HAD to appear at her first word. To mock at her, to execute those long-chewed, precious plans of revenge, to – to-anything – whatever!

Wasn't he, at least, curious?

Perhaps, the feeling of being watched that grew into her very flesh in course of the past eight years was just a nice little case of her personal paranoia. Only that none of either her close or distant relatives had ever showed signs of such didn't mean she couldn't be the first in the family. Perhaps, all of it had been but a manifestation of a puberty-triggered neurosis. And there had never been any kidnapping, any Hoggle, Ludo, any Labyrinth. Any Jareth. Perhaps, the fact that none of it entered her life for about two years already could be easily explained by some shift of hormones which had to happen sooner or later. Yes, she could swear that last talk with Hoggle was real, but...wasn't it what all those plagued with hallucinations said about the creations of their minds?

Sarah didn't miss them much, not until now. When faced with the news that they couldn't visit her anymore, she felt anything but regret. The real life swallowed lots of her time and brain – to such an extent that at some moment she actually started regarding those evening hours in the company of her labyrinthian fellows as tedious, yet unavoidable family gatherings. It's not that Ludo became any smarter, or Hoggle underwent some striking transformation from a sullen pinchpenny dwarf to anything distantly reminding of a decent friend for a swiftly growing and even more swiftly developing young woman. And truth be told, the way Sir Didimus reacted at every car, which chose to honk, or, Heaven forbid, stop anywhere near their house, was plain ridiculous and no less embarrassing.

She let them go with a light heart, and plunged deeper into the everyday prose.

And now...now, in the empty house of her childhood, with no one striving to rob her of her free time, Sarah suddenly questioned that decision. By no means was she unhappy with her life. The college was fun, while it lasted. She wasn't pressed for money. The small gains yielded by the vintage and handmade shop she ran with her two partners allowed her to rent as small a flat, but it was more than most had, and for now she didn't feel any wish to move on. She did her best to get along with her family. In fact, the terms she finally came to with her step-mother were better that she felt she could ever have with Linda Williams herself. The fact that she was staying here for a week already, and such visits occurred at least twice each three or four months, testified to how eager Karen and her step-daughter were to bear each other's presence.

And yet. There was something in the air this week that had woken up the twinges of conscience in her. May be, it was because this time she was offered to occupy her former room, which, even redecorated, kept too many memories to wave off that easily. Or may be, something in the way Toby's new terrier bounced at her feet, spluttering with ecstatic barking at each ghost of a smile, or went at every stray leaf or candy wrapper which threatened to break her peace, reminded her of another brave defender she once had. All of a sudden that careless goodbye began to feel if not like a complete betrayal, then a thing very-very close to it.

Why didn't she ask about the reason of their leave? Or wait, she did, yet it went straight down the dusty basement of her priorities as soon as she got her answer. The King deemed it impossible. His right, she remembered herself thinking. She was too tired of trying to bring two utterly different lives together.

But what if they were just forbidden to tell her the truth? Or hoped she would press them into asking for her help? They could expect her to call Jareth or to wish herself away to the Underground to right the wrong they were suffering from, whatever it might have been.

And what did she do?

And what was she doing now? Sitting here dressed up like for a marriage market.

The thought made Sarah smile against the rapidly deteriorating mood. Jareth definitely missed the fun of his life. It's not everyday that your formerly triumphant adversary makes an idiot of herself, attempting to impress you with a cheap off-the-peg elegance.

"Could have made me run your Labyrinth in that, you know," told she to the ceiling.

It seemed like high time to wash off the war paint, since the war never came off.

Should have let it go from the very beginning. It's not like she knew what she'd have asked him, had he deigned to appear. Any claim, any word of anxiety for her friends were just a little too late.

She needed a shower. A long, boiling hot, relaxing shower.

The autumn had barely begun, but coming out of the small bathroom, warmed-up like a perfect oven, was already an unpleasant undertaking. Her bare legs instantly covering with goosebumps, Sarah wrapped herself tighter in her old bathrobe, but that didn't seem to help much.

The self-forgetful warble of the phone caught her half-way to her room. She'd dearly wish to ignore it, as her hair was already covering in rime, but it could be Karen wanting her to drive Toby home from some pal's birthday party. She warned Sarah that might happen in case their own Saturday visit to one of the three cousins of Karen turned out longer than expected.

Forcing herself to think of a bottomless cup of hot chocolate, solar flares and the dunes of Gobi at once, Sarah grabbed the receiver.

"Williams, Sarah?" sing-sang a crystal voice before she managed to utter a single word.

That didn't bode well at all. It could be just her, but getting a call from an unfamiliar person and hearing the latter enunciate one's name in a pointedly official way when one's family was not in could hardly make that certain one happy.

The obliging imagination immediately drew Sarah a sequence of horrible pictures, one worse than another. The only thing that still kept her from letting her knees buckle right on the spot was an absurd idea that neither police, nor any medical institution would ever let anyone with such angelic vocal qualities deliver the worst news possible.

"Umm...Yeah," admitted she through the lump in her throat.

"Miss or Missis?" inquired the voice with the same cooing intonations.

"Miss."

"See," murmured the receiver, breaking out with soft humming and a series of tapping sounds, "Yes, Sarah Williams, age 23. The Royal Underground Wish Service. Accept our sincerest apologies for the delay."


	2. Trouble threshold

_**Disclaimer:** _see chapter 1.

Thank you for the attention, the alerts and the favourites. They cheer me up so, don't even doubt it. :) And a special thanks to xLookinGlass for the review. :)

Your feedback is immensely appreciated. Read… and review, … please?

**Chapter 2.**

_**Trouble threshold. **_

_The keeper of the city keys_

_Put shutters on the dreams._

_I wait outside the pilgrim's door_

_With insufficient schemes._

_The black queen chants_

_the funeral march,_

_The cracked brass bells will ring;_

_To summon back the fire witch_

_To the court of the crimson king._

"_**The Court of the Crimson King" **_

_**King Crimson**_

Strange how the shift in one's state of mind could change their perception of the environment, and of its thermal qualities in particular. A perfect icicle a minute ago, Sarah could now swear her body suddenly flared up like a piece of paper, thrown into the fireplace.

"Could you, please, summarize your claim?"

The absurdly commonplace question brought her back to where she was standing wide-eyed, with a receiver almost glued to her cheek. Sarah blinked several times to dispel the hallucination, then shook her head violently. Nothing changed. She was still in the hall, the phone was still there, and there was still the sound of someone's light breathing, seeping through the receiver right into her burning ear.

Well, that was slightly less theatrical than she had expected, but, after all, she HAD hoped for some reaction. And here it was.

So...he wanted to stage a do-like-mortals-do play this time. All right, she could buy that.

"I hoped to … settle a certain matter with the King," resolved she at last.

"Yes, we registered your summon," confirmed the voice heartily, "Would you specify the type of this matter? Is it childcare?"

"Most certainly not!"

The clerk – if it was one – on the other side of the line seemed not to notice the resentment which her assumption provoked.

"Lovelife?" offered she on the same obliging note, "Hob infestation? A leprechontract breach?"

"A lepre-," Sarah felt her gyri slowly unwind and weave themselves into braids, "No. It's...personal."

For a couple of moments the receiver was silent, save for some barely audible rustling of pages turned over and over.

"I'm afraid it's not His Majesty's public day," crooned it apologetically.

Sarah's temperature climbed to that of a bubbling lava. Indeed, at some point the game was beginning to amuse her, yet someone just couldn't help but overdo it, could he?

"It is urgent," seethed she through her teeth.

"Oh," the receiver sounded honestly upset, "Let me check...Yes, I think we can find a gap in his schedule. Kindly expect a callback, it won't take more than a minute."

"Thank you," murmured Sarah by pure inertia.

"Thank _you," _the voice immediately regained its optimistic qualities, "Your request is very important to us. Wait for-"

The phone broke out with short beeping.

Slowly, like she was moving underwater, Sarah put down the receiver.

And what was that all about? What kind of a grotesque comedy did he think he was pulling?

The five minutes were passed in nail-biting and angry pacing around the phone table, and, when the call never came, she couldn't even say she was surprised. After all those hours, really, why not make her wait a little more?

After another twenty minutes she was ready to confess to herself that this time the politics, chosen by the Goblin King, proved fruitful, if, of course, it was aiming at scorching her nerves black.

Two more hours, and the flapping of the front door heralded the arrival of her Dad and Karen, dragging along drowsy Toby, at which Sarah was forced to drop her vigil. Though it didn't make much difference. She already knew that no one would call her today. Tomorrow, probably, too. The next gap in His Majesty's schedule would fall on her granddaughter's silver jubilee. May be, he'd even be as kind as to leave a peach on her own moss-smothered grave.

A cup of traditional family cocoa and three night goodbyes later Sarah retired to her room and unmade the bed optimistically. Like fun. After several unsuccessful attempts to sleep she crawled from under the heavy blanket, changed back into her jeans and shabby T-shirt and positioned herself by the window in a warm company of her work-box. A raid through the flea market earlier that day left her with little pocket money and an almost new pendant – lovely, if somewhat tarnished. The scattering of blue rhinestones on a round copper plate was obviously supposed to stand for the pattern of some constellation, but Sarah was never good at astronomy. All she saw was a piece of bijouterie, which deserved a second life, and, perhaps, a second owner, if they managed to sell it.

Putting the thing on, she studied herself in an small pocket mirror. Not her kind of thing, yet it wasn't so bad, either.

She should have brought some lemon with her. Nothing was as good for dim copper as lemon. Pity it was already too late to leave the room. She didn't want to have the whole house up in no time – a feat she, with her marvelous capability of finding her bearings in Karen's kitchen, would accomplish in no time.

Perhaps, she'd better read instead, thought Sarah with a yawn, picking up a random love story from the collection of books on her table. Not like she was feeling too weary...

...The twelfth chime of the clock found her curled up in the chair, eyes closed and breathing low and even. The sound made her wince through the slumber, but the night visions had already pulled her in too deeply. She didn't wake up.

Somewhere downstairs the phone rang, and then again, but, strange as it was, no one hurried to pick up the receiver. And soon the ringing stopped, plunging the house in complete silence.

* * *

><p>"Miss Williams!"<p>

She was waking up with difficulty, unable to completely shake off the heavy, disturbing shreds of a dream which clung to her consciousness. It must have been raining while she slept, as her room was permeated with strangely oppressive smell of dank soil and stones, sweating with that cold sweat, which takes hours to dry after an autumn shower.

"Excuse me? Miss Williams?"

Sarah jumped up on the spot, painfully hitting her nape against something much harder than she remembered the back of her chair to be. With a hiss of pain she lifted her hand to the throbbing place and froze still, not having touched it.

The room she discovered herself in was anything but her own one. For one thing, it was way larger, measuring to about ten times the perimeter of the hall downstairs her family house, and certainly had no furnishings of the living-room kind. The absence of which, though, was fully made up for by the number of chairs and benches, lining all the four walls of the parlour and sticking here and there in the middle of it, like bushes on a plain. As far as she could judge, no seat remained unoccupied. The place, with its pastel-coloured panelling, dull and speckless floor and abstract paintings on otherwise bare walls, must have once been designed to look like an average waiting-room at an average office, but the visitors gave it the strangest of appearances. Tenth of them, of both genders and all ages from the teens up, some fully dressed, the others shrinking in nightclothes and underwear. A woman in her early twenties three chairs away from Sarah was wrapped in nothing but a bath towel, but that didn't seem to worry her. Although she didn't look calm, either. None of the visitors did. If there was something that made them birds of one feather, no matter what, it was the look they all shared – the expression of taught expectation, as though each had a tight metal spring in them, ready to be released.

More than anything the room reminded her of a bomb-shelter.

Gentle coughing drew her off the contemplation of the surroundings. Raising her eyes, Sarah had to live through another shock, this time of an aesthetic kind.

The woman who stood in front of her with a thin pack of papers, clutched in one hand, and an accurate pen in the other could easily spit on the idols of human female beauty from the height of her six feet and something. An amazingly unflawed figure made up a perfect alliance with the face of a breathtaking fairness, the flowing river of chestnut hair and the azure eyes of an ancient goddess. Sarah swallowed painfully, thanking the highest powers she was not that unfortunate towel-wearer. Her self-esteem would hardly live on with that.

"Accept our apologies," chirruped the ethereal creature in the voice, Sarah remembered well, "You didn't answer our phone calls, so we took the liberty of transporting you here without the preliminary approval. Is it all right?"

"I guess," muttered Sarah, not completely sure whether she really didn't mind it.

"His Majesty will see you in three hours from this very minute," the nymph held out the papers so far they nearly touched Sarah's nose, "Be so kind to sign this."

Up to the moment Sarah never noticed how ugly her signature looked. Perhaps, she should take some calligraphy lessons, when out of here. If she's out of here at all.

"Thank you!" the beauty gifted her with a dazzling smile, "Should you need anything, feel free to come up to me. There, to the front desk."

"I will," nodded Sarah, "Thanks."

Three hours to go... Left on her own, Sarah soon found it hard to think of a time-killing occupation, which would last her till his Royal Goblin Majesty chose to grant her with his presence. First she attempted to focus on her neighbours, but it appeared a fine waste of time. There were no windows to lend an idle eye to. The pictures proved as uninteresting upon closer view as they looked from the distance. The repeating motive of crossed lines, brown on white, plain and unimaginative.

With a heavy sigh she settled back on the bench and let her eye-lids meet for a second or two. The more she dwelt on it, the less Jareth-like it seemed. Yes, at fifteen her insight and better judgment left much to be desired, but...Encouraging bureaucracy? Running an office with a dove-voiced secretary? Following a schedule?

Oh, come on.

She couldn't believe she knew him so little.

There was something seriously wrong in here.

The unflinching lady Sarah, the conqueror of the Labyrinth, took a breath and pushed herself up from the bench with a grim resolution.

The rest of the visitors watched her dully, as she walked up to the miniature front desk, stuck between two more helpings of chairs. The receptionist ignored her approach, leafing through a huge account book and now and then pausing to write a random name in a random row or column. The tabletop in front of her moaned under the mess of papers and folders, which very nearly blocked her the view of the waiting-room. A bunch of lilies in a tall vase did its best to turn the general clutter into an epitome of an ultimate scrapheap.

Having counted to 100 without so much as a glance in response, Sarah let out a suggestive cough. The receptionist rose her head and switched on a smile that looked somewhat habitual.

"Yes, may I do anything for you?"

"Do you need any help with that?"

The brows of the nymph flew high and for a split of a second Sarah believed they would never return in their usual position, but their owner took herself in hand quickly.

"I'm not supposed to...Though...I mean, I never...," she looked around hesitantly, as if half-expecting a party of Cleaners storm in and bring the front desk to the ground, documents, and flowers, and all, "Yes...I think, that would be very nice of you. Sort this, will you? The ones with a red stamp go here," a long goldish-tinted nail pointed at a small plastic stand, already choke full of papers, "And the black stamps...you'll just put them together and give them to me, all right?"

Contenting herself to a short nod, Sarah set to the task offered with diligence. This way of doing in the time was no worse than any other. Besides, it gave her some hopes of getting the new acquaintance talk. She had to know what she'd better be ready for.

The receptionist dove into the account book again, occasionally muttering something to herself. The slender fingers of her left hand were toying with the fringe of a dark indigo shawl, offhandedly wrapped around the lithe figure. The sight was somehow entrancing. For a split of a second forgetting her initial plans, Sarah let herself wonder what such a ravishing lady could be. An elf? Some kind of a tailless seamaid?

"Something's wrong?"

"No, it's fine," Sarah shook herself up, and, not to look a complete fool, uttered the first thing that came into her head, "I love your shawl."

"Do you?" the beauty smiled again, making Sarah wonder whether that porcelain face was tired of folding into one and the same expression on so different occasions, "Thank you so much. It's a birthday gift – from my fiance."

Someone's lucky.

"It looks all new."

Here it goes. She seemingly managed to get the dialogue going. It was not as informative as she had hoped yet, but, like they said, well began is half done. And clothes were something she could expatiate upon forever and a little more, considering her present occupation.

"Of course, it does! The birthday was last week. Oh, no, I'll take the blue stamp. Sorry, I have no idea how it got in the pack, they were all supposed to be handed in yesterday."

Sarah bit her lip. The conversation threatened to wilt in the bud. She needed to find some new thread of a subject and do it quickly.

Fortunately, the receptionist didn't plan to let it go, either.

"Your pendant is nice, too," said she, moving aside another stack of folders, "I know some who would kill for it."

"Why?"

"You never get anything of a mortal crafting here," explained the beauty in a tone of deep regret, "And for sure, not the jewelry. You make lovely things nowadays, all those murano beads and...nickel."

The word came out with the stress on the the last syllable.

"So like...Are we in fashion?" the idea was so ridiculous, that Sarah couldn't help laughing.

"Not funny," in the voice of the lady there sounded a slight reproach, but the smile came back to her lips, too, "Two months ago the Countess Dowager herself ordered a pewter bracelet with the name of King Charmer engraved on it. The seller swore on his tail it came from the Aboveground."

"Did she?" something told Sarah the rest of the story would be a discredit for the Countess Dowager, whoever she might be, "And?"

"And you should have seen her face at the Royal Ball, when His Majesty's jeweler said: "Oh, what a nice thing you have here. Dwarf-made, isn't it?" The old bat went all beetroot," the beauty uttered a low vindictive chuckle.

"Don't like her much, do you?" it was hard to suppress a grin, and Sarah just quit trying.

"Who does?"

Both girls laughed again, causing the occupants of the waiting-room stare at them gloomily.

Still smiling, Sarah undid the chain which held the pendant over her neck.

"Happy birthday," said she, putting the trinket on the desk.

For a moment the receptionist studied the offering in unbelief, then looked up at her mortal companion like her world had turned itself inside out.

"For me? I mustn't take it, you know."

"Is it the King?" asked Sarah downright.

The beauty frowned, her eyes coming back to the gift. The silence dragged on...

"In fact, I see no reason why I shouldn't," confessed she at last, "Nobody forbade me anything of the kind."

"Then take it."

"Thank you," nodded the lady unsmilingly.

Feeling a little awkward, Sarah helped her with the clasp and fixed the pendant over the rich silk of the shawl.

"It's so good to have you here, you know," uttered the receptionist all of a sudden. Her hand went up to stroke the thin chain absentmindedly, "I'm all fed up with it, bored to death. There's no one to talk to. A satyr comes three times a day, but all he can is to crack those dirty jokes of his. And there are, you know, the cleaning staff, yet they are all … those lower races, no one's even literate. Nobody else is allowed here. And I miss my home."

"For how long has it been like this?" asked Sarah quietly, afraid to scare off an unexpected moment of frankness.

"I'm not good at mortal timing, sorry," the lady shrugged her shoulders with a disinterested air.

She kept pulling at the pendant, thoughts obviously wandering far off the dull room where she was forced to pass her days.

"Are you done?" murmured she, as her glance stumbled over the last piece of paperwork in Sarah's hands, "Some coffee?"

"Yes, miss Williams will have coffee. With me. It's something she came here for, I believe."

The silky voice lashed Sarah out of musings on what the whole conversation would lead her to. Promptly she whipped around to find herself face to face with a newcomer, standing two steps away from their small company.

A tall, lean, fair-haired newcomer, clothed in an costly three-piece suit, which for some reason didn't clash with the neat fairy markings on his face. Smirking an unpleasant smirk. Oozing arrogance. And totally unfamiliar.

"Miss Williams, be so kind to come in," the blond moved aside and gestured for her to enter the vast study behind the doorway he'd been blocking with his stunning person.

When she was eight, a teenage bully from the house next street pushed her off the swing, sending her forehead first to the ground. It felt like that again, with the only exception that the blow she received now was non-physical. Which didn't mean the lesser damage to her head.

Sarah obeyed the beckoning hand and stepped inside, feeling rather than seeing the predatory smile on the lips of her unearthly host.

The door closed soundlessly.

"So, what can I do for the esteemed last Champion?" drawled the Fae with a courteous half-a-bow.

She knew she had to react, but no suitable words came to her mind, so in the absence of a verbal enlightenment her brain chose something already tried in a similar situation so many years ago.

"_**You**_ are him, aren't you? _**You**_ are the Gobling King?"


	3. Puppets never argue

**Disclaimer:** the same old drill, do not own what's not mine.

Thank you for you attention. Reviews would be very welcome. :) (hint-hint-hiiint)

**Chapter 3. **

_**Puppets never argue**_

_You want to play a new game_

_You put on this blindfold_

_You do what we tell you_

_You do as you're told_

_Used to be the leader_

_Now comes the time to serve_

_Maybe we'll show some mercy_

_Maybe you'll get what you deserve_

_"__**Meet Your Master"**_

_**Nine inch nails.**_

The Fae lingered with the answer, the pale eyes skimming over her face and figure. She would have felt uncomfortable under such a profound scrutiny, if not for the fact that her brain was floating in the clouds beyond the reach of anyhow normal challenge and response operations.

"If no one else lays claim on the title," chuckled the stranger, having stared his fill of her asinine stupefaction, "It is me."

His pupils were black and even, though a bit too small to her liking. So, the disproportion was a purely Jareth hallmark, not something race-inherent, as she'd come to believe for no apparent reason. For a short moment of obliviousness Sarah wondered whether her once-enemy had been born this way or left with those mismatched eyes by some accident. She heard such things happen to people. Was it the same for his kind?

"So," repeated the Fae, seemingly losing hope of obtaining any intelligent reaction from his guest, "To what do I owe the honour of a personal visit? I do not recall if I had a chance to introduce myself to you before."

He seemed younger than Jareth, too. The features more roundish, the cheekbones less pronounced, the thin mouth less...experienced-looking, for the lack of a better word in her vocabulary.

The fair hair with a muted sheen of platinum was cropped short by a skillful hand, and from where she stood Sarah could swear she caught the scent of his perfume, cold and besotting, and with the price probably hitting her monthly income.

"There's some mistake," muttered she at last, "Is it the Underground?"

"Positively," nodded the blonde with a slight smile, "Would you care to take a seat? I'm afraid I feel somewhat ill at ease when forced to conduct a meeting on foot."

Still a bit dazed, Sarah plunged into a wide leather-bound armchair, while her host lazily settled himself in even a huger seat on the opposite side of a weighty mahogany desk.

"Coffee? Anything stronger, perhaps?" offered he good-naturedly, "I happen to own a fine bottle of the Aboveground whiskey. Royal Salute, it should be. Or does my lady prefer some fruit liqueur?"

At the mention of the local fruit Sarah's brain finally clicked back into place, and she bristled almost instinctively, as the taste of that dream-infused peach rose in her mouth, and the ballroom lights shone before her mind's eye, making her wish to waltz and vomit all at once. Those memories always did.

"No," snapped she roundly, yet checked herself at once, suddenly embarrassed by the shrill sound of her own voice. Goblins or no goblins, that didn't seem a nice way of conversing to a little-known royalty, "I mean, no, thank you."

The Fae uttered a peal of dry laughter.

"Do not suspect me of such things," urged he on a note of nearly offensive indulgence, "We no longer use the pleasures of the table to keep mortals in our realm. In fact, I'm even starting to think we should introduce some limitations on the number of the Aboveground visitors per month... So, please, allow me."

His hand moved up swiftly, drawing an invisible pattern in the air. The patch of free space above the desk, close to where her fingers were rataplanning nervously, warmed up, thickened and slowly took shape of a dainty cup. The rich brown liquid inside exhaled the unmistakable aroma of freshly brewed coffee – at which Sarah's mouth immediately reacted with its own interpretation of the Great Flood. Swallowing down the lake which drowned her poor tongue, she allowed her finger to curl over the slender cup handle and paused, unsure if the trust she was putting in her host's words was redundant.

The Fae continued watching her invitingly, so in the end she had no other choice but to pick up the cup and take a tiny sip, ready to spit out the treat at the first signs of giddiness or vision coning.

The coffee was marvellous. Flawless, in fact, from the strength to the velvety aftertaste, perfect in a very personal Sarah-Williams way.

An approving, if not delighted noise broke out of her quite on its own, at which she blushed violently.

The thinnish lips of her host parted in a smile of what must have been contentment, but looked like contempt, anyway.

"Thank you," murmured Sarah, this time with absolute sincerity, "So...All those visitors in your waiting room. Are they wishers? Why so many?"

"Greed, indolence, patience deficiency," the Fae shrugged his narrow shoulders, easing against the old leather of the backrest, "People lapse into helplessness, and helplessness is the mother of complaints. But you didn't come here to ask me about it, did you?"

Sarah was slowly relishing another sip of her coffee, unwilling to speak as yet, but knowing that half-a-minute of the safe silence it spared her would hardly be enough to conjure a decent excuse for her persistent – some hardly polite – summons of the Underground authorities. She couldn't just say there, back in her room, she'd been howling like a singed cat for the sake of a mere "hello".

"What's become of Jareth?" the question seemed to her the most logical one she could think of under the circumstances. After all, her wish was to speak to him, not to the one she was shown in his stead. And there seemed no use inquiring after her friends – at least, not for now.

The beverage might have proven free of any spells or substances to hurl her into the middle of another goblin feast, but that didn't mean she came to feel more at ease with the otherwordly being in front of her. Definitely not to the extent to pour out her soul to him. He didn't look the type of the creature to form a friendly alliance with, or at least not the alliance beneficial for someone other than himself. And somehow she felt he wouldn't think it beneficial to let Hoggle or Sir Didimus pop in the Aboveground at her whim.

One could only presume what good it did to Jareth, for Sarah positively refused to believe he'd allowed it out of pure generosity.

"His former Majesty, Duke Jareth, retired further inland, to his own domain. We do not hear from him often. He is in good health, if you need an assurance of the kind. Is the coffee to your liking?"

"It's really good," nodded Sarah, not letting him lead her astray, which he was obviously aiming at, "He is no longer a King then?"

"No, my dear lady," the host shook his head, smiling patiently, "The Goblin King is in front of you. Edmyg, at your service."

That should have been the point at which someone more practical would embrace the state of the things to the full, and, may be, try to act accordingly. But not her, no matter how foolish she herself realized it was. It still failed to come home with Sarah the reality had changed beyond repair. Somewhere in her there lived a deep-rooted conviction that in some inconceivable way she just missed _**her**_ Underground. It was still out there. And Jareth was out there, too, lounging in his taste-abusing throne, toying with his crystals, stealing babies...

A sudden, distinctly unpleasing idea crossed her mind.

"Is it because of me?"

It was not at once that she received her answer. The Goblin King, however strange it was to attach the title to someone other than Jareth, was tasting his own coffee, which loomed into existence while she'd been digesting all the news of the day.

"The sense of your question evades me, I fear," uttered he evenly, returning his cup to the saucer.

"Did Jareth retire because of me? Because I passed the Labyrinth?"

It came out ridiculous, to the extent where she was not especially surprised when Edmyg let out an amused chuckle.

"Your human vanity...No, I'm afraid not. I wonder whether you'd find it a personal insult if I told you almost none in the Underground remembers your very name, including my assistant, as I was surprised to discover. Why do you think I call you the Last Champion?"

"There were others," replied Sarah calmly. The knowing that she didn't have to feel guilty for leading someone to their ruin somehow made up for a hardly agreeable realization she wasn't a one-of-a-kind phenomenon, praised in two worlds at once.

"Seven of them, counting you out," confirmed the King, "Some men, some women. You came up to the dawning years of Jareth's reign. He would have relinquished the post even if you'd failed to be born, let alone cross his path. He was tired."

There was no reason for her heart to skip a beat, and then another, but it had all the same.

The feeling was unpalatable, as if a person she'd for many years considered leading a steady, predictable life, happy or otherwise, all of a sudden appeared long dead.

"And the Labyrinth?"

"The Labyrinth no longer exists. It was King Jareth's brainchild, his know-how, if you wish. Although now that I think of it, I heard of his recreating the thing somewhere. To indulge his guests, I believe."

"And I thought I wasn't a guest person," said Sarah with a small grimace.

His laughter was as unpleasant as his smile, and even more so, as he didn't bother to conceal that he was laughing at her rather than her words.

"And you're almost unique, maiden Williams," stated he in a purring undertone, "I wonder, how Jareth..."

The phrase trailed off, leaving her in a tense expectation of the rest of it, which never came. The quietness, that settled in the chamber for a fair two minutes, appeared awkward only for her. The King made no attempts either to finish his thought, or to start a different subject, having opted for another round of a staring contest. Not that speaking to him brought Sarah some unearthly delight, but being forced to share that uneasy silence appeared even worse.

"But if there's no Labyrinth, how do you deal with those who wish someone away?" asked she some time later, when it became clear, he was probably determined to keep her hanging till she gave up and took herself off on her own.

"In an up-to-date manner," replied Edmyg promptly, as though it wasn't him who had let the conversation go to naught, "They hand in a notice of appeal and we deliver it to the Court of Elders. The rest is the matter of time."

"And...Has anyone got their children back?"

Her host was polishing his nails with the pad of his long thumb, looking about as interested in the discussion as his own desk.

"The first hearings are scheduled for the end of the decade. Our decade, of course, it would be next to impossible for the Court to bend to your time standards."

"It doesn't seem fair."

Since her fateful travel outside the borders of the Aboveground Sarah normally knew better than to state something of the kind, but now that it didn't involve her personal interests, she just couldn't refrain from the comment, useless as it was.

"It didn't seem fair when my mother wished me away. Neither was it fair when the child she delivered two years after found his death in a bucket of filth and was thrown away like garbage lest someone should discover he ever existed. I find it that the mortal concept of fairness is highly egocentric. A born Fae as he was, King Jareth deemed it amusing. I don't."

"Was?" echoed Sarah with a frown. The word fell down like a rubble, eery in itself and eerier when repeated.

"Oh, I'm sorry," said the King without any expression, keeping his gaze locked with hers, "It doesn't mean he's no longer in the ranks of living. More like that he's no longer a king. The Aboveground tongues fail me sometimes."

His face was handsome, so handsome that any move of a muscle made it ugly. Up to the moment she'd been subconsciously comparing him to Jareth, but now the two Kings stopped being one, may be, because it occurred to Sarah they could have been rivals, and the rivalry could have ended in a violent way.

What reasons this Edmyg had to be honest with her? None. How could she be sure Jareth, indeed, was "in good health"?

And if he was not...If even _**he **_was not, what could be said about those he ruled and protected?

"But the children are still taken away by the goblins, aren't they?" inquired she, trying to sound indifferent.

The King curled his mouth in a mien of profound distaste.

"No, I beg you, there's magic for that. I prefer not to employ dimwits unacquainted with the basic notion of discipline. Most of the goblins and their like chose to go after King Jareth, which I cannot say I fret about. We are trying to keep up to the mark, and it's hard when one has to work with an army of numskulls."

Sarah was studying the bottom of her coffee cup. The common sense she'd developed in the recent years told her that, perhaps, it would be better to call it a day. If Hoggle and the rest were with Jareth, and Jareth was really safe and sound, the most reasonable thing she could do was to let it be.

And if Edmyg lied, letting it be became the only way someone with a normal self-preservation instinct could choose, even if it meant a shameful retreat.

"Well, then," the King stole a look at his watch, "As much as I wish to hear the first-hand tale of your own conquest, my schedule is not that allowing. What is it that you wanted to discuss with my predecessor?"

Sarah licked her lips nervously, then smoothed her hair in an automatic gesture.

"The things left in the Labyrinth...has Jareth passed them on to you?"

"No, I do not tend to collect souvenirs of the kind."

That made it easier. Or a whole lot harder.

"My ring," said she at last, "I had to leave it there."

"If you say so," nodded the King courteously.

"I believe that...Since I'm a Champion, last or whatever, I can claim my property, can't I?"

"Decidedly. We do not keep anything that is not ours," her host rested his elbows on the desk to lean into her in a fellow-conspirator manner, "But I'm wondering – it's been a while since you left us. Why now? I didn't see your ring, but I assume it shouldn't be too precious a possession, if you didn't care for having it back for all that time."

Sarah had to repress the wish to flatten herself against the armchair.

"I promised my mother I'd wear it for my wedding," replied she in the most serene voice she could manage.

A spark of emotion, one she couldn't interpret, flickered in the piercing gray eyes, and the King sat up straight, his relaxed bearing replaced with alertness.

"Ah," murmured he in the tone of renewed interest, "So, should I take it so that our Champion laid down arms to some lucky adversary?"

"Yes, I'm engaged to be married," his florid parlance was little by little affecting her own mode of speaking, "So you see, I must get that ring back."

"Congratulations, my lady. I don't think I can be present at the event, but please, feel free to send your wishlist to my assistant. I'll be honoured to pamper the newlyweds."

"There's no need in that, I assure you," refused Sarah loftily, "Or send me to Duke Jareth, if you can. I'll just ask him to give my ring back."

"I gladly would, but there's one problem, my dear lady. That piece of our territories is completely closed for mortals. The lands outside of the Goblin Kingdom – any part of them – cannot be visited by your kind even as a special gesture. It requires too many temporal and material changes."

"But I made my wish..."

"I'm afraid you didn't," interrupted her the King, "You see, personal interactions do not count as an object for a bargain. You asked for an audience, which I heartily granted. Even had it been a wish deal, it would have been closed by now."

"Can I make another?" Sarah preferred to ignore the hints at annoyance in his voice, "What if I wish myself to wherever King...I mean, Duke Jareth is at the moment?"

Edmyg was regarding her from under the half-lowered eyelids with something akin to curiosity, as a bug-hunter could regard a rare insect, estimating whether it would make a decent addition to his showcase.

"The ring must be really important to you," he mused out loud.

Sarah chose not to answer. The whole thing was already slippery enough for her to run the risk of spoiling it all with another clumsy lie.

"Very well," resolved the monarch with a small smile, "Only because it is you. Go on."

Sarah gave him a blank look.

"Word your wish," elucidated he wearily.

"Oh. All right," she searched for the right words, but, eventually, the simplest way felt the surest one, so she went for it without further waverings, "I wish to be taken to Duke Jareth. Right now."

And...nothing happened again.

It proved to become a good tradition with her already.

The King picked up his coffee and opened a day-timer which had popped out of the thin air under his left palm.

"I'll bid you farewell now. You can go out the way you came here, and I'll see to the rest."

"Do I have to sign anything?" asked Sarah just in case. The prospect of waiting for another decade didn't smile upon her at all.

"You already have. That draft will change into a solid contract with all the proper terms and conditions once we are done here."

Sarah stood up, a little surprised at how simple it appeared to have her way.

"Goodbye, then?" offered she hesitantly.

"Farewell, maiden Williams," murmured the King against the rim of his cup.

The waiting room was empty, the chairs and the front desk abandoned, like every living being just dissolved into nothing, or rather never existed at all.

Her skin reacted to the change in the atmosphere quicker than she realized it, growing cold and breaking out with a wave of goosebumps. Sarah trembled in the piercing draught that seemed to be seeping from each chink and corner. The walls exhaled that spine-chilling dampness again, and this time the watery smell was intermixed with the reeking of rot and decay, and something else that brought to mind long-forgotten, slumbering marches.

Someone moved behind her noisily. Someone snickered in the far end of the room. Something grabbed her by the waist and jerked up to leave her hanging a meter away from the floor.

And then there was shiver, and headache, and the air turning into tar around her...She was struggling like an ant drowning in a drop of molasses.

The lights went out with a puff.

Sarah screamed.

* * *

><p><em>Pain came from nowhere, stabbing him in the abdomen and sweeping up to blossom with a clod of thorns in his chest. He stumbled on a ribbon of harsh wind and somersaulted ungracefully, sick of t<em>_he cold waves of the aftershock, which rolled on and off him without stop. _

_Somewhere far below the land that was his gave a moan of irreparable grieving, and fell silent again._

_Regaining balance, he swooped down to where the pyres of a time and weather-grazed mansion bathed in sunlight. A owl hovered an inch above the ground, but no owl's talons touched_ _it, and the prints, the now walking creature left in the dust, were those of boots, not bird's feet._

_He couldn't run – not he, not here, not under the unwinking stare of the dim lancet windows, each possibly hiding someone else's unwinking stare. At this season his house was traditionally open for guests, who didn't fail to make the best of his hospitality. _

_Yet the pace he chose was close, so close to running. _

_Jareth glided over the paved terrace to a small pavilion of red and blue glass, tangled in ivy and clematis._

_The safety charms went down in a flick of a wrist, and he dove inside to nearly clash against a young keeper, unlucky enough to travel past the doors at the moment. _

"_Which one?" _

_The youth sprang to attention, dropping the pile of books he cradled in his arms. The old tomes fell heavily, a cloud of dust soaring up to envelop the two Fae up to their knees. _

"_My lo-?"_

"_Which of them did we lose?" snarled Jareth in a voice which not many heard, and fewer could ever wish to hear, "Are you deaf? Who?" _

_The keeper's eyes grew wider. With the desperation of a drowning man he bolted through the small arch and set to a frantic race around the inner chamber, tearing stiff velvet covers off the columns of fine marble to reveal faintly glimmering orbs – one by one, each perfect in its untouched, unblemished wholeness. The Duke's lips twitched at each new crystal, which came into the light. Two, five, seven..._

"_None broken, my lord," reported the youth with a broad grin of relief and cut off, muted by the look, which settled on his master's face as, numb and subdued, he stared at the last orb with unseeing eyes. _

"_None," echoed the older Fae vacantly. _

_The keeper didn't dare stop him, when he turned around and left the pavilion in a slow gait, shoulders stooped as though his feathery cloak was weaved of rock and iron. _

_Once outdoors again, Jareth shook himself up and strolled towards the flank gallery of his mansion, from where, unseen for guests and shunned by servants, he ascended to his private chambers. Reluctantly he moved across his study, carefully he unlocked the small writing cabinet, lingeringly he lay his hands on a modest casket of blackened laurel it held only to jerk them back as though the silky wood scorched his palms. _

_He took his time before venturing another move, a whole eternity, until further procrastination seemed laughable. _

_The Duke opened the lid slowly. _

_For a second his eyes went shut, deep wrinkles forming at their corners. _

_The casket kept nothing but shatters of lifeless, lackluster glass. He touched one of the splinters with the tips of his fingers only and cringed at the hollowness that it was. No echoes. No images. Nothing. _

"_I-ness!" _

_Jareth didn't give a start. He knew the domestic had been there, behind his back, for some time already. Goblins stunk of primitive witchery for rods around. After ages and ages of rubbing shoulders with them the smell ate into his very being, so now when the concentration of their kind per square mile was not as thick as it used to be, even deep in thoughts he could sense a goblin limping two passages away from his chamber. _

"_Yes," responded he prosily. _

"_I-ness, keeper say no worey...checked more-"_

"_Shut up," muttered the Duke almost without spite, "Begone now." _

_The servants in this place never needed to be asked off twice. The goblin gave a small jump and attempted to take himself away as quickly as possible. _

"_Stop, you," hailed Jareth in a sluggish drawl, as the creature was wiggling himself through a crack-open door hastily. _

_The goblin froze obediently, his tiny eyes glistening with apprehension. _

"_If you meet Hoggle, tell him the love of his life is kissing angels now," the Duke bared his teeth in a wry sneer, "Would he like me to bog an angel for him?"_

_The creature attempted to snicker, but the lack of the relevant command, as well as the lack of air in his chest, squeezed between the jamb and the heavy door, smothered the thin laughter right in his throat. _

"_Go. Off with you," the Duke waved his hand dismissively. _

_Left alone, Jareth sank into his chair heavily, his eyes chained to the remains of the broken crystal. The mantle of cruelty slipped down from him, although the coldness was still there, coldness and arrogance of a centuries old being, used to regard the life itself as an inferior personal opponent. _

_His hand rose, palm upwards, a ball of pure power dancing between the slowly clenching fingers. With a whispered incantation he sent it to the insides of the casket, where it spread over the splinters in a glimmering web of magic. _

_To no avail. _

_The orb was as dead as..._

_He sorely wished he could shut up his mind, when it finished the thought for him in all its painful clarity._

"_Oh, precious..."_


End file.
